Venezia, Sempre Mia
by Andrea Sinisterra
Summary: [One Shot] AU, 1xR. Wives were left at home, along with their offspring and their lives. In here men were released of their responsibilities as they indulged in pleasures far beyond their imaginations. Pleasures a simple wife could not bestow.


**Venezia, Sempre Mia**  
By Andrea Sinisterra  
Romance  
Rated M  
_Standard Disclaimers Apply  
_

**Author's Note:** Formerly a lemon, I've decided to edit this and post it here. Take notice of the rating! 'Mature' still abides a lot of action, and there ARE heavy scenes in this story, they're just not too graphic. Still, not for the weak of heart.

I wrote this story with Veronica Franco in mind; I've always thought that Veronica Franco's story was amazing romantic and real, if somewhat sad. I guess you all know now what sort of story this one's going to be. If you haven't read it already.

**Warnings:** Adult themes, OoC, prostitution, among other things. Sex, and not proofread.

Also, the poem at the end is mine. So don't steal. If you want to use it (I don't know what for), please tell me. I'll say yes, I'd just like to know where it's going.

Without much further ado, _Venezia, Sempre Mia_ (Venice, Always Mine).

* * *

Torchlight and candlelight meshed into one, painting iridescent fire tongues on the walls. Such wealth reflected on the high, thick velvet curtains, heavy, wooden furniture, and startling glitter from jewelry around. Empty laughter filled the rooms throughout the house, mingling with moans and giggles from doors left slightly ajar, intentionally or not, providing entertainment for the rare, lonely souls that wandered about… Until they would find a hobby of their own. 

La Casa di Oro di Signora Boutin was perhaps the most famous, most visited of the whorehouses along the Grand Canal. The most beautiful, expensive women in all of Venice resided there and men, from captains to royalty, visited frequently, paying the extravagant fees without so much as blinking an eye. Madam Boutin promised her customers freedom, unbinding their souls tied down by duty and chaos. She provided these men with the most beautiful, well-endowed, knowing women, bright and cultured—naïve girls no older than 22 and no younger than 14. Children.

And it was always a tough, rough time breaking a new one.

* * *

She stood by the window, rigid with nervousness, her skin breaking in shivers against the cold, starless night. Dark clouds swam across the darkened skies as if foreseeing the breaking of her body, laughing at her innocence, mocking her by keeping her in the dark. The moon waned within the clouds, absent, hidden, refusing being a witness of the events this night promised for the girl. 

Skimming fingers slid across her gown; regal gold chiffon dipping at the cleavage, showing off generous, partially confined skin—pert breasts pressed tightly in mounds of temptation. She could barely breathe against the tightness in which Madam Boutin had bound the corset of her dress and it was all she could do not to reach for the ties and get the torturing garment off.

"_They take enormous pleasure in peeling it off your skin."_ The matron had whispered as she helped her dress earlier that night.

The girl pressed her hands together, unclenching her tightened fists just as the door opened and she was beckoned outside by one of the girls. Releasing a heavy breath, which succeeded in easing off a little of her nervousness, she went to follow, raising her chin, straightening her back, adding the sensual curving of her hips to her step.

A great feast had been prepared by the house cooks, celebrating the return of noblemen and captains from the borders. Wives were left at home, along with their offspring and their lives; in here, amongst these women, men were released of their responsibilities, if at least for a night as they indulged in pleasures far beyond their imaginations… Pleasures a simple wife could not bestow. They drowned in the bodies of these women who acted their parts, pretending to be whatever they wanted them to be; they drowned in the bodies of these women who acted their parts, women who did whatever these men pleased in exchange of some nickels at the end of the night.

And this girl was no different.

As soon as she entered the dining room, several interested eyes were cast on her, most of them from old decrepit men who, from their looks, could not walk a straight line without something or someone supporting them. Many had already coupled with one of the girls, heading for the rooms assigned for each of them, and others starting their business in whatever cozy corner they could find. Most of the women here, she knew, were older and far more experienced, and many of them had chosen this kind of living freely. Nymphs, they were called by other cultures—creatures, goddesses who delighted in the carnal pleasures of life, whose sole purpose was to tempt ecstasy… and what better way than to get paid for it.

Yet her story was not so different.

Madam Boutin was by her side immediately, walking her around the room, presenting her to the other guests as 'her new girl'. It was true she had been living in the Madam's house for quite a while now, but it was the first time she had been allowed to attend one of the night parties. For several months she had been in the company of the other girls, as hesitantly and with great embarrassment they had showed her the ways with men; the rapture of a single look, the ecstasy of a single curve, the flame of a touch, the tremor of the skin. They had delighted in the girl's naiveté, laughing as she blushed, but soon she had learned her part and they had dimmed her ready for her first client.

But not a thousand of those lessons could diminish the tremor of her limbs as Madam Boutin guided her throughout the different couples still in the room, bearing the roaming touch of some, and the lascivious looks of others. Soon she was left by herself, standing demurely against one wall, studying the other girls as they worked their customers; her eyes followed the roaming hands, the sensual smiles, the erotic kisses, and she could not help licking her lips in a nervous display as one man finally approached her.

Perhaps in his early thirties, not a huge gap compared to her sixteen years, but she could not bring herself to get into a conversation with him. She caught the Madam's eyes on her, slanted look that warned her from making any foolish mistake. Her party smiled at her in a drunken stupor, clumsily running his fingers across her collarbones, then dipping to the upper cups of her breasts. His breath was hot and alcoholic against her neck, wetting her skin with saliva as he kissed and ran his tongue across to her bare shoulder.

She closed her eyes, resting her head against the wall, and to any eye, it seemed she was caught in rapture, her heaving chest further evidencing her ecstasy—when in truth, she felt herself despairing, trying with all her might to not just push the clumsy drunk away and hide under the covers of her bed. Alone.

"Let us find someplace more private."

His slurred words made the void in her stomach expand, taking up her lungs and half her heart, numbing her brain, freezing her to the spot. She hesitated for no more than five seconds before she went to follow, her hand on the crook of his arm. She tried to ignore everything around her as they walked the long hall in which many rooms lay on each side, some of them with their doors opened, some with only two occupants, and others with far more. There were other doors that were closed, and yet the telltale sounds were loud and clear throughout the wood.

Her hands started to sweat as they finally made it to an empty room and he rapidly divested her of her dress and then himself, cursing incoherently at the laces of her corset. Hadn't Madam told her men loved women in tight clothes?

"_Just close your eyes and let them do all the work. It'll pass. And if they're drunk," one of the girls had said, her voice heavy with mirth. "It'll be over before you get to count to ten. Mark my words, bella."_

She was also told it would hurt, she had braced for it as the man raised her legs around his waist and pulled back, only to surge into her with a wildness that would have scared her had she not been so absent from her body. But it didn't, at least not so much. He plundered her body with a rapid succession of thrusts, one after the other, and she cradled her breasts with one arm spread across her chest to keep them from swaying with the rhythm of their coupling.

When she opened her eyes, she feared he would draw blood as he bit into his lower lip harshly; his eyes were closed into tight lines, his forehead crinkling with— she guessed—pleasure. Her legs started slipping off his skin, sweat like oil bathing them both. And just when she thought it would never end, his movements ceased altogether unexpectedly and with a shiver he cried out before collapsing on top of her.

He had been so far gone with alcohol and lust, he hadn't even noticed the slight jarring inside her body when he had entered her, and for that, she was grateful.

Pushing him off her, she pressed her legs together tightly as her insides started to burn and palpitate now that her muscles were no longer stretched. She reached for the bedside where, as in every other single room in the house, a pitcher with water and a cup containing a concoction made of vinegar and other herbs waited for her. She downed the contents of the cup with a sour face, wincing as the foul liquid slid down her throat before serving herself a glass of water.

She dressed as fast as she could, trying to ignore the slight trembling of her hands as she reached for the man's trousers and withdrew a leather pouch. She took a few silver coins and replaced the item back and then headed to the door. She held her dress up with her hands pressed to her chest as she couldn't reach for the laces at her back, and just as she walked down the hall headed for the room she shared with another three girls, Madam Boutin intercepted her, a cool smile on her pouty, red lips.

Madam Boutin—a French courtesan who had come to Venice almost two decades ago as the wife of a merchant—was not a woman one would consider beautiful, but handsome; buxom and thick boned, with her pale skin, dark eyes and dark, curly hair, she held the stance of a woman with power, and no one who knew her would think otherwise. She was cool mannered, her eyes always studying her surroundings, analyzing her potential clients and eliminating those who presented nothing substantial to her house.

The Madam regarded the girl with calculating eyes, running her gaze from the tangled hem of her gown, up the falling cleavage of the corset, to her bare, heaving shoulders, up to her tousled, honey-brown locks.

The girl extended her hand with five silver coins resting on her palm, but the older woman simply reached out and closed the girl's fingers around the treasure. "It's yours."

"Thank you, Madam."

Madam Boutin smiled; she had always been fond of the youngest ones. Especially this one. "How did it fare? I saw Signore Montegardini wasn't his usual self…"

The girl had to laugh at that, especially when the Madam tipped her head back and mimicked downing a glass. "I agree with you, Madam. I hope to get used to having men around me; it was not as bad as I had thought, yet I took no pleasure in watching a man salivating all over me as if I were a piece of cloth. I suppose not all men are the same."

Madam Boutin laughed softly, leading the girl to the rooms on the last floor. Voices from girls who were now free for the night reached them as they climbed the last steps of the long, stone stairway. "Not all men are alike. Some are very gifted in the arts of pleasure, just as some are very clumsy. Like Signore Montegardini." At that, they both burst out laughing. "Soon enough you'll find out for yourself. For now, you should take some rest, and be sure to wash. I'm sure you drank the medicine."

The girl nodded, "I did. I had not expected it to taste so… bad."

Madam Boutin laughed again. "Another thing you'll get used to with time. Rest now, child, morn awaits no one."

* * *

It was not so true when Madam said morn awaited no one, but more like night had no patience for hesitation and embarrassment. Almost two months had passed since that first, very unsatisfying night, and more than a dozen lovers since then. She had seen Montegardini on various occasions, but she had made it a point to make herself scarce, turning her back or finding someone else, lest he spot her and claim her for the night. 

Although, on a funny note, she didn't think he would remember her since he had been drowned in wine that night.

Many a lover she had had and Madam Boutin had become the witty, uplifting mother figure since then. She had become a woman now, in a sense. She had also proven Madam's comments on a lover's abilities for she had found great pleasure in many of her companions, and she was no longer the naive girl. Yet, she would remain the 'new girl' until another girl would enter under Madam Boutin's care.

For a week now, as Venice acted its part as host of many kingdoms' delegates for some sort of summit in the royalty's house, she had encountered many foreign men, and from them she had learned many different, new things.

Earlier that week she had been cornered, or so to speak, by an Arabian prince, and even if he had been shy and almost hesitant, he had consented to Madam's prodding and had bedded her. He had been gentle for a change, and she had taken pleasure in breaking his resolve.

A nymph she had become, experienced and tempting; she enjoyed like she never thought she would, seeing a man, powerful and literally stronger than her, begging her, moaning his frustration as she held him captive by the toned muscles of her thighs; they groaned for relief when she bathed them in kisses, yet never going far enough for them, merely teasing them until they were shivering, trembling with their repressed climax. She had perfected the act of seduction, using not only her body, but words and looks to render them to their knees as they begged her to free them of their prisons, if just for a night.

She loved the part she played in these men's lives.

If only Madam didn't insist on lacing her corset so tight. It was so difficult to breathe normally in the thing, but she had seen men, not all but some, enjoy divesting her, running their rough fingers over every inch of skin they bared.

Business went as usual that night: the house full, the girls busy and Madam Boutin doing her rounds. The usual sight greeted her eyes when she entered the salon; half empty as some couples had already retired to the rooms to do their business. Many men still lingered about, some surrounded by women, others having had drunk themselves into a stupor and now laid unconscious, or almost unconscious on the many plush seats throughout.

Another man, solitary and handsome, stood by one of the windows, the largest one overlooking the Grand Canal, a faraway look on what she could see of his face from this angle.

She was drawn to him, perhaps because he was so alone; perhaps because he seemed detached from his surroundings… it could also have been mere curiosity. She wasn't sure, and neither did she question herself as she came to stand behind him. He did not start or react when she put her hand on his shoulder and neither was a word exchanged. Not much later she was leading him to the halls at the back of the house, passing room after room until they reached the one assigned for her. He never hesitated or faltered as she walked into the room and closed the door behind them, and neither did he complain when she reached for the buttons of his blouse.

For some reason, unexplainable to her, she felt she had to be tender with him; something in his demeanor, in his eyes, in his movements warned her. Gently, she removed completely his shirt, running her soft fingers over the broad expanse of his tanned chest; his breathing pattern didn't alter, and neither did he react to her touch. It was as if he were absent from his body, a mere vessel—an empty shell of a human being.

He sat at the edge of the bed, his eyes trained on hers. Slowly she reached for the long laces at the side of her corset, undoing the knots and letting the cloth fall to the floor forgotten as she then proceeded to undo the front buttons of her gown.

Piece by piece, one after the other ended at her feet, and soon she was standing bare in front of him, her chest heaving, yet unashamed. Only then did he reach for her, laying his open palm on her stomach, his eyes fixed on her skin. She treaded her fingers through his hair, the silky strands flowing and longish.

No words were exchanged between them, but they were not needed. His eyes spoke volumes to her.

His hand moved to encircle her waist, and a moment later he had laid her down on the bed beside him, running his hand from the base of her neck to the end of her belly, smoothing the skin with warm caresses.

She rid him of his pants and boots as he, in turn, reached to uncoil her hair from its bindings, losing his hands in the tumbling locks. There was no preamble to their union, no words, just a look, and she wrapped her legs around him, arching her back in anticipation as he finally entered her.

She reveled in the sensations that he aroused in her; they were so different. As opposed to her past lovers' rapid, frantic thrusts, his were torturously slow, almost melancholy as he balanced his weight on his forearms, his head tucked at her neck. His pace was agonizing, yet to her surprise, not much later she was writhing and gasping as she felt her momentum increasing, and just as she cried out and grasped his arms tightly, he gasped suddenly and then fell almost boneless at her side.

Both their chests were heaving uncontrollably as they fought for breath and tried to regain their senses.

* * *

They would meet by the same window at the end of each week; it had been a silent agreement between them, an agreement she was more than pleased to fulfill. 

Not many words were exchanged between them. Among the few things he had confessed about himself, she had learned he was a poet. Not once had he recited a single verse, yet the seldom times she had asked him, he had closed up, withdrawing from her, as if trying to escape a painful memory. She had wondered more than once about his life, about his past—if he had a family or not… It was strange his behavior around her, especially when they coupled… during those moments, it seemed he would slip away from his body, as if he was trying to escape or forget something…

Bits and pieces of a puzzle were falling into place slowly, and every time they were together, another piece would appear. The way he touched her hair, running his hands through the tresses; the consumed way he touched her abdomen, almost reverently; the ultimate moment when he would climax, soft words in a foreign language she could not understand slipping off his tongue…

More than once had she been tempted to flip through that old, leather-bound book he kept always with him; that book he treasured and held on to as if his life depended on it… She was positive it would reveal more than a secret or two of this broken man who had so suddenly fallen into her life.

Since that very first night when she had seen him standing by that window she had been unable and even disgusted to be with another man. She was not in love, of that she was certain; since little she had learned love was only for those with foolish, weakened hearts. It was curiosity, she now knew, what drove her to him; that, and a sense of protectiveness when she held him in her embrace.

One of the nights, perhaps their third together—for the first time since that night with Montegardini—she fell asleep. It was then that she discovered the book which he had kept hidden from her; he had been sitting in bed, room half lit by the single candle at her side, his hand moving in flowing lines across the paper. He hadn't noticed her at first, and she had drank in his profile; the fine lines of his chest and shoulders, the tough column of his neck, the chiseled lines of his jaw and cheekbones, the darkness of his eyes, the concentrated creases on his forehead… they all meshed into a single portrait in her mind, forever engraving the magnificence of his solitude, of his pain, of what she finally knew was heartbreak.

Tonight, as she entered the salon, clad in a deep red gown in company of Madame Boutin, she felt it was time to draw a line between them. She feared she would get attached to him, and in a way, she already was. How could it be, being brutally honest, that she craved his touch over any other man's touch? How could it be that she had let this, whatever it was, go on for so long? She had been a fool, lying to herself, telling herself it was nothing, when in reality she had wanted to be with only him since their first night.

So earlier that night she had asked one of the more risqué girls to lend her an equally risqué gown, and had made it a point to stay as far away from the window as possible. She would not dare look his way, would not dare wander his way, instead just linger around the sitting room, seducing and being seduced on such a distracted mind she could only nod and laugh emptily at whatever deluded comment whichever man she was with said.

She got invited to go upstairs, not long after, by a man who, on any other occasion would have pleased her by just his looks. Light brown hair and dark eyes set on a friendly, cheeky face; he was tall, almost a head taller than she, and his voice held that hoarse timbre she liked so much… Yet the image of that damned poet still lingered in her mind, and as they made their way to her room all she could think of was his silent way with which he treated everything around him.

She let the man take her body on an absent interest from her part, her brain fogged to anything around her including the movement of his body as he thrust in an out in a ferocious dance that had the headboard slamming against the wall. Her arms lay limply at her sides instead of clutching the bed sheets as she often did when it was _him_ above her, taking her slowly, his languorous thrusts stroking the embers in her belly until they rose to a raging fire and erupted in a passionate cataclysm.

This time, when it was over, she stayed there and waited for him to leave, not having the strength to get up. He left a few coins on the little table near the door and as he walked through it, he turned around, winking at her with a smile on his cute face.

But it pleased her not.

What had that man done to her? Why did she let him affect her so? And why exactly was he so appealing to her? He was like any other man: a human with needs. What set him so apart from other men?

She reached to the side table for the vile of herbs and vinegar, drinking the potion before a voice startled her and she almost dropped the glass. For some reason it had not surprised her to see him standing there, shoulder against the doorframe, eyes watching her intently.

She tightened the sheet around her torso as he neared the bed slowly. Her voice was defensive as he stopped at the foot of the bed. "What are you doing here?"

He threw the old, red book on the bed, and her eyes were immediately trained on it. He was giving her permission to read it; she could see it in his eyes. "I know. There it is; you wanted to read it the other night. I'm giving you permission to read it now."

Her hand reached out to grab it, but she thought better of it, and drew back. "You read it."

He sat at the edge of the mattress, reaching for the book and flipping absently through the pages. "Which one?"

Her smile was wistful as she drew her knees below her chin. "The one that broke your heart."

He froze but didn't look at her. He settled on one page. He opened his mouth once and then twice, unable to speak, and he had to clear his throat a few times in order to get his voice on an acceptable level.

"You glowed, an—"

He slammed the book shut and then ran a shaky hand through his hair. He exhaled a deep breath, his body seeming to sag dejectedly as he hung his head by leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. She crawled over to him, wrapping the sheet around her as she sat behind him, her hands settling on his shoulders as she kneaded the stiff muscle.

"What have you done to me?" She breathed into his ear.

She was not prepared for the sight as he turned around and focused his liquid eyes on her. His gaze was penetrating and even darker in the flickering light and as she breathed something unintelligible, his mouth settled over hers, not quite kissing. He turned completely and wrapped his arms around her, not before taking the blanket from around her body, bearing her to his sight.

The book lay forgotten as they crawled higher on the bed and he took off his clothes, his eyes trained on hers. She kissed his shoulder and then his neck as he took her waist in his hands, his thumbs drawing circles on her flesh, tickling and torturing.

Her breasts rose and fell with each breath she took, her skin breaking into a sweat from the warm night and the mild breeze that flew from the canal into the room was unable to cool her suddenly over heated body—especially not when he was so intent on making her even hotter by lowering his head to her chest and taking one nipple into his mouth, suckling it gently, even when it felt like hot coal on his tongue.

He settled a hand on her knee and left it there, yet the feeling, the anticipation of having it there frustrated her, but soon—as he moved his mouth to her other breast—he was moving it towards the heat of her body, slipping to the inside of her thigh, making her tremble as it neared the apex between her legs. But he didn't touch her; he simply laid it there, stroking the smooth skin in time with the flicking of his tongue on her nipple, the double friction driving her almost mad. She was writhing in his arms, arching her back tremulously, widening her legs in a primal invitation, but he still refused her.

He lowered his mouth to her stomach, smiling against the quivering muscles, running his tongue, kissing her skin, letting her feel the edge of his teeth against her body…

She moaned, agitated, and them sighed in pleasure as he came to settle between her legs, kissing her throat, up to the skin behind her ear. He bit gently the lobe of her ear, and had to smile at her sharp intake of breath as the gesture caught her by surprise. She arched her back wantonly again, pressing her breasts against his chest, bringing a leg to rub against his.

It was beautiful; the sensation of flesh to flesh. The motions, though practiced and old to her, were different. The meshing of the sensations he rained on her and the emotions in his eyes, as if they flowed from the deepest part of his soul, were magical. He made everything seem different… and for a flitting moment, it felt as if it were their first time together.

But it wasn't, and neither was she a virgin and he, a saint, and she didn't regret it. They were just two human beings in need of passion, coming together in lust, bound to the other by desire. There was no other way to see it.

Their choreography set them on fire, gradually enhancing their pleasure, tipping their balance. They moved together in perfect synchronization, their movements were reverent, filled with awe and unexpected bliss. Her hands, one threading through his hair and the other on his back, were trembling from their exertions; her legs cramping almost painfully as they tightly hugged his waist and hips.

She bit her lip as she felt the boil inside her snap and without warning she reached her acme, arching her back almost painfully, slamming into his chest before she sagged limply back onto the bed… and he was with her the entire way.

They both lay gasping for breath, often swallowing to get some moisture into their parched throats as their heartbeats slowed to their normal pace.

"What's your story?" He asked all of a sudden.

She shrugged, not really minding his question. "I came here out of need. I needed money and some place to live. Madam Boutin was kind enough to take me in."

"In exchange you sell your body." His tone held no menace.

"Maybe." She shrugged again, tracing circles on his chest with her index finger—an unconscious action. "I won't say I wasn't scared, because I was… But it's a job. My job. You just get the hang of it after a while."

"Don't you believe in something?" His voice was incredulous.

She laughed softly. "In what? Love? I wouldn't know, I've never had anyone to love, or love me back. Love is just a simple, ordinary word to me."

His smile was sad. His fingers played with her hair. "Your parents? Family?"

She sighed. "I didn't know my father. I don't have any siblings, and my mother died of tuberculosis when I was twelve."

"My wife and daughter died of tuberculosis… almost two years ago." He took a deep breath, exhaling it in a trembling rush. "I was away from home at a battle near the borders… They didn't allow me to see them. I got back a few weeks too late."

_So he was a soldier._ She chose her words carefully. "Do you blame yourself?"

He smiled lightly, sighing. "No, not really. I wish I could have been there with them. I've accepted the fact that they're gone, but it still hurts. I miss my little girl. She would have been five years old by now."

She felt something inside her clench in pain, even as her eyes welled up in tears. "And you wrote her a poem."

There was brief pause.

"You glowed, angel, like starlight." He recited, his voice deep and low. "Incandescent beams so bright."

She reached for the book which lay at the far end of the bed and gave it to him. But he just held it to his chest. "You left so early, my child / Falling tears hot as fire." He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. "They mourned, wept, left so tired / Wrath, vanity, death alike / Daughter, they choke me / No longer a reason to breathe / A void, they mourn, so incomplete / This strange place with no identity."

She craned her neck to look at his face; it was so peaceful, like happy and relaxed, as the words flowed from what seemed his soul.

"They don't understand your place / There is no reason for tears or pain / Silver gates, your home where you'll stay / With hope and love you'll forever play."

She stared at the rugged lines across the ceiling, suddenly immersed in their decadent design; she could feel the slight breeze coming in from the opened window, and the sounds of laughter and the hum of the water from below… Her heart pounded fiercely within the cavern of her chest, almost muting out every other sound around her. She was clearly aware of his breathing pattern as his chest rose and fell with each intake; she could feel the beating of his heart under her ear.

The pain in his voice still resounded through her head, yet it was so burdened in memories, his memories, that it was not heartbreaking, but wonderful. Beautiful. The words flowed from his lips fluently as if they were uttered unconsciously and without pain; as if the words held nothing against his soul.

She turned to look at his face, his profile seeming rougher than usual with the candlelight and moonlight spilling around them; his eyes closed as he seemed deep in slumber.

She looked at him like she had never done before, studying the lines and shadows across his face; the angle of his nose, the shade of his lips… she already knew the exact hue of his eyes, they were engraved in her memory even after only a few encounters… Encounters that seemed like an eternity to her.

His eyes opened and their gazes locked and before she could utter a word, his lips descended on hers. It was not a demanding kiss, nor was it filled with that insatiable hunger and need they always felt—instead it was soft, almost mellow as his lips caressed hers gently and yet is was so intense she suddenly felt like something was breaking, changing inside of her. His fingers tenderly stroked her hair and the sides of her face, his thumbs smoothed out over her cheeks… it all combined with the sudden burst inside her, an alien sensation she felt with each stroke of his lips, with each sigh of breath.

He sighed again, his body even more relaxed as he held her tighter to him. She wanted to ask him about so many things; the poem had been so deep and so lighthearted to him, she felt it in his body and could see it in his face as he smiled at her. She had thought he was a broken man… but he was just lonely. He had found his happiness in his own way, and she, in turn, had found safety in this stranger's arms.

How strange life could be. She wondered if Madam Boutin would mind if he stayed the night… but then again, she really didn't care.

She felt content laying there in his arms; for the first time in a very long while she felt a truly genuine smile at her lips; she felt warm and safe and wanted… And maybe she didn't love him, but she had never believed in "impossibles". Maybe someday, in some future, she would learn how to love and accept him, but in the meantime, she was happy just settling for the now.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
